


Breaking

by Raptor_Redemption



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Arguing, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, M/M, Men Crying, Mental Breakdown, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28862181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptor_Redemption/pseuds/Raptor_Redemption
Summary: Felix finds bitter comfort in war until he returns home to deliver a letter. This would be of no consequence, except that the parchment details rumors of the boar king's return. As this sparks further bitterness between him and his father, Felix must learn to embrace the hope of his comrades with his heart tight and his chest filled to bursting.If only his tears were enough to wash away the stain of ink on the page and make it all disappear.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Sylvix is subtle but present, and there's a couple instances of implied Dimilix. While this isn't super romantic, Felix's feelings are clearly _very_ strong for both of them.
> 
> [Karol](https://twitter.com/cosmicbubble_) and I just can't get enough content of Felix being sensitive and prone to crying, the way that he was described as a child. Call it a character study, call it self-indulgent, but at the end of the day, I just love Felix (and all his repressed emotions) and was thrilled that Karol requested this from me c: 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, too!

There is a peacefulness to war that Felix has, for better or for worse, settled within. With each winter that arrives, each seemingly colder and more desolate than the last, he blankets himself in the mindlessness of battle the same way that snow continues to fall without regard for the life it is blunting.

Every now and then, when rumors of hope come about to stir the pot, Felix’s miserable but restful peace is shattered—

That is precisely what happens when Gilbert of the Knights of Seiros pulls Felix aside in the barracks and crumples a piece of parchment into Felix’s gloved hand. “Take this home, boy. Ride as fast as you can. Your father and Margrave Gautier must be made aware immediately.”

Felix squints at him. “Send a wyvern rider, then. What could be so important that it must be me?” The weather in northern Faerghus will be miserable, and Felix has much work to accomplish at the monastery before the next invasion, expected any week now.

“It’s not been sealed.” Gilbert nods down at the note. “It concerns you as well.”

Felix isn’t happy about being demoted from general to delivery boy, especially given the letter’s contents (his nose wrinkles and brow furrows when he reads them for himself), but he has no choice but to oblige. 

The hooves of Felix’s horse kick up snow in great, flurrying waves. Even along the more well traveled paths, the drifts are deeper with four days’ of travel between Felix and the monastery, from  _ Gilbert _ . He doesn’t believe in this false sense of hope, in the premature celebration and unfounded strategic changes that the contents of this letter will spark, but the mind-numbing chill keeps his mind blank until he reaches Fraldarius territory.

“Felix!” A squire greets him at a soldiers’ camp on their land’s outskirts. Panicked, the squire lifts from his shallow bow and rushes forward. “Are you hurt? We didn’t expect you—”

Felix is red-faced, his lips chapped and eyes framed by frost-kissed lashes when he dismounts, but he bears no injuries. If his fluid dismount doesn’t prove that he’s feeling as normal as can be after days of solitary travel, his familiarly surly attitude certainly does.

“I need to see my father. And what is the status of House Gautier?” The squire calls to another to inform Lord Rodrigue of Felix’s return, but it’s a pointless task and Felix barks at him to return to his post. “If he’s in the manor, I’ll make my way there myself. House Gautier?”

“The winter here has been harsh, and it’s prohibited much contact we would have with the margrave. The last we heard, Margrave Gautier’s son is attempting to make the journey to us for an exchange of news, but if the weather proves too difficult and he is caught halfway…” It’s as if the squire remembers who he is talking to—Sylvain’s best friend. More? The rumors have certainly floated about, Felix imagines. “Apologies, Felix. Lord Rodrigue may know more.”

Felix allows himself to be content knowing that, for now, Sylvain is safe (or as safe as he can be). He waves the squires away, allows one of them to lead his horse to be watered and fed, gives a small nod of thanks, and sets off down a familiar path toward his childhood home. It’s a mile or so away, if Felix remembers correctly, but that’s good. He could use the time to stretch and to think.

Rodrigue looks much the same as the last time Felix saw him when he rushes to meet Felix just outside the manor. Felix brushes away the arms that come to embrace him, to wrap a dry blanket around his shoulders and usher him inside. Instead, Felix pushes forward into the foyer by himself as servants hurry to keep out the cold and close the heavy oaken doors behind him. His boots trudge muddy slush indoors, but Felix only proceeds toward the grand staircase and his father’s study. “We need to speak in private,” Felix says, then shoves the note into Rodrigue’s hand much the same way that Gilbert forced the news upon Felix.

“Felix, I—”

Beside his father’s desk, Felix ignores the way that Rodrigue’s face falls when Felix continues to refuse a warm welcome. He pointedly turns away to avoid seeing how his father’s eyes will light with hope upon reading the note’s contents. The notion is sickening, like curdled milk sitting heavy in his stomach.

“Who wrote this?” As expected, Rodrigue is nearly breathless when he asks.

“Gilbert.”

Rodrigue’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a pathetic fish gasping for its final breaths. “It’s His Majesty. It  _ has  _ to be. He’s alive.” Felix stands still, arms crossed over his chest as Rodrigue paces the space in front of his desk. “We all should have known, ever since the Imperials refused to offer his body for proper burial. This entire time, it’s been a trick. A ploy to degrade us and stamp out the fight we have left in us.”

“Whether it’s the boar or not, what I fail to understand is how each and every one of you dusty old men seems to believe that merciless slaughter is  _ good  _ news.”

Felix’s father looks as if he’s been stabbed in the heart by his own son. His mouth gapes stupidly again. “The reports of these gruesome killings were  _ Imperial  _ generals in  _ Kingdom  _ territory.”

“And are their lives worth any less? They were  _ tortured _ prior to their death.”

“Dimitri may have happened upon a dark path, but that is no less reason for us to celebrate his survival.”

“Maybe if he had enjoyed the pleasure of a doting, fatherly influence, he might have turned into a respectable young man. Oh, wait. He called  _ you  _ ‘Father’ prior to this. It’s all coming together.”

“ _ Felix! _ ” Rodrigue’s face pales with anger, frustration, whatever it is that Felix evokes in him—Felix doesn’t know and frankly doesn’t care.

“We are one of the last remaining strongholds in the kingdom. If you want to sacrifice the safety of Faerghus to chase the ghost of some wild animal that may or not be your  _ favorite fucking son _ , then be my guest.”

Gaze tired and empty, Rodrigue shakes his head in what can be only disbelief. “How long have you thought of him this way?  _ You  _ are my child, not—”

“You wish he were in my stead.”

“I wish  _ nothing  _ of the sort, Felix. Dimitri is your friend, too, your  _ lifelong  _ friend. Do you not remember how close you were? How much you loved him? When did this change? How are you not sharing in the same joy as I? Our house should be hosting a  _ feast  _ tonight with this news, and yet you—”

Felix scoffs. “And yet I ruin everything? Yeah, I’m used to that being my job, but that’s what you get for being the only voice of goddess damned reason left in this country. Where’s Sylvain? The margrave? We can do nothing without their coordination. We would be leaving the entire North open to attack if we remove our troops on some fucking  _ boar  _ hunt—”

“Sylvain will be here on the ‘morrow, though we’ll have to send a rider for the margrave. The weather has been too poor for much travel between us and Castle Gautier.”

Sylvain...Tomorrow. Much better than the vague information the watch troops provided him. Hell, this is the only good thing Felix has heard in weeks, and to think that the news came from his  _ father  _ of all people.

“But,” Rodrigue continues, the weight of his furrowed brow promising more hurt and frustration. “House Gautier should be of no concern to you. Our troops are plentiful enough to maintain an adequate force to both repel the Dukedom and to organize search parties for His Majesty. You yourself have a third of our forces at Garreg Mach. It would be simple enough to disband them and—”

A weight drops in Felix’s chest, like his heart might burst from the pressure and spill to the floor. “Those soldiers are under  _ my  _ command—”

“Under your command at  _ my  _ orders! If I demand that they disband, then they will.”

“And leave the church’s only remaining stronghold an open target for the Empire? You’ve gone senile!” 

Felix watches with horror as Rodrigue’s mouth sets into a firm line, the same kind of grimace that came with unyielding punishments or decisions when Felix was a child. The expression sends years’ worth of unpleasant memories rushing through him at a breakneck pace, and before he knows it, Felix is shaking. He doesn’t know why, but the push of tears pricks at his face. He is angry, disgraced, and betrayed all at once, and emotions too big wrestle against one another and threaten to emerge all at once. 

_ Don’t you dare cry, Fraldarius _ , he tells himself.  _ You are at war. Crying is a weakness, and weakness is death. Don’t find an early grave like Glenn. _

His eyes must be watering, because Rodrigue’s expression softens and he takes a step forward. “Oh, Felix,” he says as he reaches out a hand that Felix only swats away with a hapless swing. “If only you could understand that today is not a day for these kinds of tears. Our King is—”

“ _ Your  _ king,” Felix spits. “Not mine.” Tears spill in searing little trails down his cheeks along with the denouncement, and Felix doesn’t see Rodrigue anymore. He barely sees the study or the corridors or anything at all—he simply follows the familiar trail toward his bedroom. It’s a trail he’s followed many times before after hearing some reprimand or disappointed speech from Rodrigue in the study—something that happened so often It’s no wonder that Felix remembers it well.

The door crashes shut behind him, and it’s a relief when the ocean of saltwater tears can pour forth. Felix slams both palms against his pillows when the tears burn hot with anger first. Then, they turn sad. He thinks of Glenn, of how his father refuses to see Dimitri for what he is, of how Felix is never quite good enough and the stupid  _ boar  _ is all that matters. He cries because he misses Sylvain, his friends. Because he is at war and he’s tired.

And eventually, he is crying only because he’s tired of crying. The exhaustion prompts more tears—an endless, painful cycle that ebbs and flows for hours until his body finally allows him to rest.

He wakes late in the day, his eyes bleary and crusted with tears that dried in his eyes as he drifted to sleep. Even with the sun high in the sky, there is little more than bleak, gray light filling his bedroom. To Felix, it gives the same impression as graveyards do, how tombs can never quite seem joyful despite the brightness of a summer’s day.

If Dimitri  _ is  _ back and if everyone Felix knows is going to turn on their heels to worship a cold-blooded murderer, Felix might not mind so much if this room truly did become a tomb— _ his own  _ tomb. He will not fight for those who defend an animal like Dimitri. He is no king.

Only a monster.

He allows himself the afternoon to rest. Rodrigue must have ordered someone to bring Felix food, because he finds a goblet along with a tray of lukewarm stew and a loaf of bread outside his door the one time he leaves to take a piss.

Thankfully, the manor itself is nearly silent. Felix can only imagine the bustle outside, though. He dares not peek out the window only to catch a glimpse of hurried preparations, troop reassignments, and the exchange of relieved embraces and cheers of “Long live House Blaiddyd! Long live the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus!”

He buries himself in quietude and all day fights at the occasional heat that builds on the back of his eyes. Instead of fresh tears, wet and humiliating when they coat his cheeks, Felix finds only the sting and ache that comes when his face contorts with grief but the tears refuse to come. He clutches at his chest, rakes his other fingers crooked with tension through disheveled hair. Then, he pounds one fist into the mattress and the other against his thigh. These violent motions come and go as he ignores the stew now sitting on his desk and struggles to fight against the trickling of such intense emotion just beneath his skin.

Felix’s only comfort is the silence and the relative warmth of his bedroom that lingers even when the fire has reduced itself to mere smoldering embers.

If Rodrigue were any kind of father at all, he would at least come to check on Felix; predictably, now that Dimitri is back, Felix has been all but forgotten. It’s nothing particularly new or shocking—Felix has always been little more than a replacement for someone (anyone) else. He allows himself to drift in and out of sleep because there is little more to do. There are moments when his breaths come so quickly that Felix thinks he is getting no air at all. The fear makes him choke, has him coughing and gagging until he grasps at the bland cup of wine and sips at it to soothe his throat.

Teased with the taste of nourishment, his stomach growls. It wants more. His mouth waters for it.

He drinks the stew with fervor and tears at the bread, drinks his wine in only a few large gulps. Letting the food settle in his stomach has him feeling tired again, and he drifts until there’s a knock on this door.

First, he pretends to be asleep.

Another knock.

Can he pretend to have left? Felix isn’t ready to face Rodrigue or anyone else. He just can’t do it.

This time, the knocks come in a sing-song pattern that Felix recognizes from his academy days, whenever Sylvain would come bothering him the night before an exam or when he was bored and just wanted company for dinner. Felix scrambles to his feet, throws open the door, and falls into Sylvain’s front with nearly enough force to knock him over, armor and all.

“Hey, Fe.”

Felix registers the concern on Sylvain’s face—he must look a mess with tangled hair, splotchy cheeks, and bloodshot eyes.

Sylvain’s voice drops to something soft and incredibly gentle, as if he might scare Felix away. “What’s going on?”

Felix pulls Sylvain into his room and tells him everything. His arms fly about to angrily animate his retelling of Gilbert’s note, of yesterday’s events.

Finally, once Felix has tired himself out, Sylvain sighs and says, “Your old man’s real worried about you, you know.”

“Fuck ‘im.”

Sylvain sighs again, but Felix can see that it’s not disdainful—there’s a smile just beginning to form on Sylvain’s lips, even. “Let’s forget about it for now, at least until morning.”

Sylvain wraps his arms around Felix. It’s the first significant human contact that Felix has accepted in a long, long time, and his chest swells at the feeling. Maybe Sylvain feels the way that Felix’s muscles tighten, because he holds him even more securely as Felix erupts into another bout of tears. The embarrassment of it all only makes Felix feel worse, but his mind and body can simply handle no more feeling. His shame abates entirely, replaced with numbness, and emotions spring from Felix as the dams break and waters overflow their banks.

He cries into the crook of Sylvain’s neck, allows his body to shake, wails his frustrations and his fears and how he’s afraid for Dimitri to return because Felix can’t  _ ever  _ bear to see him like that again.

Sometime amidst Felix’s outburst of emotions pent up for too long, Sylvain coaxes him beneath the blankets and must have even left Felix on his own for long enough to rekindle a fire. Eventually, Felix’s body tires, and he is left trembling in Sylvain’s warm grasp. 

He registers a hand brushing his hair, stroking down his back. He feels the steady rise and fall of Sylvain’s chest and forces his own breathing into the same slow rhythm. The buzzing in his ears diminishes, replaced only with the crackling within the fireplace and Sylvain humming. Felix feels the song reverberate from the crown of his skull, where Sylvain’s chin rests.

“I’m sorry.” When Felix whispers, his voice cracks, nothing so embarrassing as the entirety of this night has been.

“This isn’t a time to apologize. I don’t care what your father or my father always said—there’s not weakness in crying, you know. And hey.” Sylvain tips Felix’s chin up with one finger. “You think you’re everyone’s replacement, Fe, but you’ve never once been that for me.”

This time, the building heat that pushes at the corner of Felix’s tired eyes is welcome. Tears flow anew, just when Felix thinks that there can’t be any more tears to cry. They soak Sylvain’s shirt, but his grasp around Felix only tightens. There are no reprimands, hardly any soothing. Sylvain just lets Felix get it out, and that makes him feel safe for the first time since the war began.

For the second night in a row, Felix cries himself to sleep. This time, thanks to Sylvain, the tears well from a more joyous place.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to read any comments y'all have, and kudos are always a joy! For more writing and FE3H chatter and Real Emotional Felix Hours™️, come hang out with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/raptor_redeem).


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